Foster Davis Poems

At three o'clock
On a winters day,

The bells of Saint Timothy
...

Warm dry puffs,
A prehensile wind,
Stroke a graying beard,
Lift a fragile fringe of hair.
...

We knew.
We did have a clue.

So, in the stew
...

I sing a song late of frustration,
Pulling thorns from a thin-skinned back and breast.
While, poor me, I chide my introspection.
A real man would blow this off with a jest.
...

I crouch before this fallen saint,
Relieved the race is run.
I rest my arms upon my knees,
The rage within me done.
...

Gloriously abounds
The impassioned sounds
Of a tipsy urban cowboy.
...

Handy planks of crimson fiber,
Split and torn, a rending of essence.
All form mauled in a mire of viscous disinteregation.
The darkening pungent flows,
...

In supplication you reflect each Sabbath
To review your sallies with revulsion
Sanctuary secured
Sobriety solemnized
...

A fearther of thought abandoned,
No longer to soar, dive or glide.
Now fallen away, discarded,
A molting of mind in its time.
...

Stars along the far shore drip their light
Back across the black glass to the pier.
I hold up my hand but their light
Does not illuminate.
...